Not Like This
by Snarkymuch
Summary: After the plane wreck on the beach, Peter was actually seriously hurt. He thought dying would be different, good thing then he didn't.
1. Not Like the Movies

Peter's body ached and burned as he pushed himself forward. He needed to get as far away from the beach as he could. There was nothing like a plane almost coming down on Coney Island to draw attention. Toomes was taken care of, and it seemed for all intents and purposes, he should be breathing some sigh of relief, or at least feeling some level of accomplishment after pulling off what he'd just done, but instead, he felt strangely numb.

The sounds of sirens were nearing, and drawing a shaky breath, he took the last few steps to the street, ducking into the shadows of an alleyway. Feeling began to return to his body, and his legs started shaking. He was wavering under his own weight. He'd taken some hits. He knew for sure some ribs were broken. It was then he felt the growing warmth on his side. He brushed his fingers absently against it, bringing them up to his face. It took a moment to register. It was blood.

He looked down at the spot on his side and could see—even in the darkness—the deepening shade of red growing on his sweatshirt. What it meant didn't connect though—not really. It wasn't like a surge of adrenaline pumped through him, and he jumped into action. It was more like time slowed down as he watched in morbid curiosity as the wound bled. It was the sound of sirens passing the alley that snapped him out of it.

That's right. The crash. The plane. He had to get out of there.

He scurried up the brick wall to the rooftop, feeling his side burn and pull. He pressed a hand to it and hissed. Blood dripped from his fingers. This was too much blood. Peter lifted his shirt and inspected the wound. It was deep—a puncture maybe. He thought back, trying to remember it happening but drawing a blank. His thoughts seemed slow. His senses dulling.

What was he doing? Right, the blood. He put a hand over the wound again and pressed, thinking absently how it fruitless it was since no one knew where he was. No help was coming.

It was all very anticlimactic. He imagined bleeding out, dying, would be different. It wasn't the life flashing before your eyes scenario from the movies. It was just … cold, thoughtless, tiring.

He looked out over the city and thought how out of everyone out there—no one was going to notice him dying tonight. Maybe that's what being a hero was about though. Getting as many wins as you could and then one day, without so much as a thought from the world, you die. The world goes on, and another hero takes your place.

He drew a shaky breath. It was getting so cold—a shiver passed through him. He was so tired. He couldn't ever remember a time he was this tired. He tried to walk but stumbled, collapsing onto the gravelly rooftop. His stomach began to hurt in earnest, and he rolled onto his side, drawing up his knees, feeling very much a child and not a hero.

This wasn't how this night was supposed to go. This wasn't how any of it was supposed to go. He thought of Liz, Ned—Aunt May. There it was. The emotion that he wasn't feeling—the fear. He was scared. He didn't want to leave Aunt May alone. He couldn't. He needed to be there for her. If he died, she'd blame herself.

He couldn't die there. Not tonight. Not on this shitty roof. He was going to live. He just needed to … He had no idea what to do. The only person he could call wanted nothing to do with him. Mr. Stark had made that clear. Happy wouldn't take his calls either.

Maybe he was going to die after all. That thought hurt. It burned him like fire. He tried to push himself to his feet but only managed to get to his hands and knees. The building seemed to sway beneath him. He imagined this wound was just a bit too much for his advanced healing to keep up with. Maybe if he could just get home. Apologize to Aunt May. He didn't want to leave her without an explanation.

He rechecked his side. It was still bleeding. This really sucked.

He grunted and tried pushing himself back onto his feet. He couldn't do it. This was it. He was going to die. Crap. This was just not how the night was supposed to go.

It was okay, though. He'd saved people. He'd stopped Toomes. He'd kept the city a little safer. Maybe he could rest.

He curled back up on the rooftop and closed his eyes. His limbs began to feel warm and tingle a bit. It wasn't bad. He imagined there were worse ways to go. It felt almost like falling asleep.

Then he heard it. It was distant and foggy, but he knew the sound. Repulsors. It couldn't be though. There was no way. He was dreaming. How would Mr. Stark have found him? He didn't have the suit anymore.

"I got him … Shit," he heard Mr. Stark talking.

He felt someone lifting him, holding him tight. He heard the Repulsors again and then air pricking his face. He could hear broken fragments of Mr. Stark talking.

"Fuck … Faster … Divert the power then … Fuck … Kid, kid … No! Peter!"

He couldn't hold on any longer, though. The darkness was so comforting, so warm. It wasn't harsh and painful. He relaxed into, hearing a distant voice calling out his name as he slipped into the silence.


	2. Why am I awake?

There was a niggling feeling in the darkness in the back of Peter's mind. He tried to push it away—ignore it, but the harder he tried to block it out, the sharper his senses became. It was like something was trying to pull Peter from the peaceful cocoon he'd found himself in. Everything was so quiet in the dark. It was peaceful. His senses weren't on edge, harsh and sharp and too intense. Everything was soft and muted in the darkness. He didn't want to leave this place, to leave this feeling, but that damned pull was getting stronger.

The first thing he felt was the dull ache of his side. Why did it hurt? That thought wandered around in his mind for a while, looking for a reason to make sense. Slowly, a connection was made. The plane, the crash, Toomes. Little puzzle pieces started to come together.

The rooftop. He'd died. Hadn't he?

How'd he not?

Oh. Mr. Stark.

It felt like trying to remember a dream. The harder Peter tried to grasp it, the more difficult it was to hold onto.

Voices began to intrude in through his comfortable blanket of darkness. It annoyed him. He wanted to reach out and web their mouths shut but then he'd need to find his arms. Right now, he was working on just keeping his thoughts together.

"He's just a damn kid!" someone yelled.

"Christ, Banner. Don't you think I know that!" an angry voice snapped through the fog.

He _so_ didn't want to wake up. His thoughts were becoming more ap,parent though, and he was able to place one of the mystery voices after a moment. It sounded just like Mr. Stark, and he sounded pissed.

Peter felt himself trying to shrink back into the bed. Oh, he was on a bed. Right, where else would he be?

"We'll discuss this later. His vitals are changing. I think he's awake," the other guy said.

Peter couldn't place the voice, but whoever he was, he was right. He was waking up, and he hated every aching and painful moment as his senses began to return full force. He could feel the starched sterile sheets against his skin, the ache of his ribs, and pull of what he imagined were stitches in his side.

Ugh. He felt like crap. Why couldn't they have just left him alone?

"Hey, kid, wakey, wakey," Mr. Starks's voice came from beside him. "After the shit you just put me through, the least you could do is open your eyes."

"Don't push him, Tony. Give him a minute. His senses are different. It might be an adjustment waking up."

The other guy was absolutely correct about the senses. Everything was sharp and new feeling, so different than the dull weight of darkness he'd been in.

Wait, he knew about his senses? Did Mr. Stark betray him and share his identity? The fragments of conversations started to come together. He knew! He told!

His heart began to pound in his chest, heart beating against his ribs like a caged animal. His eyes snapped open and looked around wildly. His eyes fell on a shocked Mr. Stark first. He was reaching for him. He pulled back, yanking an IV from his arm, tearing the wires from his chest, machines fell and crashed to the floor. On pure instinct, he scurried up the wall, looking down at the scene.

"Jesus—for fuck's sake. Get down here. You're fine"—Mr. Stark put up his hands in a placating manner, backing up—"See, you can have all the space you need. Just get the fuck down before you tear your damn stitches out. I mean, seriously kid. You're taking years off my life right now. You know that? _Years_."

Peter's eyes flicked between Mr. Stark and the other guy. He was medium build, brown-haired with glasses. He seemed vaguely familiar from somewhere.

"Son, I know you're probably scared and a little confused, but Tony's right. Why don't you come on down?"

Peter studied them for a minute. His options seemed limited. He looked around the room. It was large, white walls, sterile. The windows didn't look like they opened. From the skyline, he would almost guess he was in Avenger's Tower, but that should have been all closed up. It should have been only Happy left.

Mr. Stark pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He looked up at Peter, his expression softer than earlier. He sighed. "Peter, please come down."

He shook his head, eyeing the other guy. Mr. Stark seemed to notice that as he turned and grabbed the man by the shoulder. "Peter, this is Bruce. Bruce Banner. He's the one that patched you up."

Peter swallowed dryly. He licked at his lips, nervously. "I heard you. You told him about me."

"Uh duh, what did you want me to do, Peter!" Mr. Stark snapped. "You were fucking dying in my arms. You're just lucky he was here in his lab still, or I would have brought you to the real fucking hospital. Try explaining a kid who sticks to shit to the doctors there."

He was pinching the bridge of his nose again, and Peter was starting to feel a bit guilty.

"I … I'm sorry," Peter finally said. His side was starting to hurt. Hanging from the wall probably wasn't the best idea after nearly dying—Spider-Man or not. "Are you mad-d-d?"

Mr. Stark looked up, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Christ. You think I'm mad at you. Of course, you would." He looked tired. "Peter, I'm not mad, okay? You did great with Toomes, but you took off, climbed up a building, and nearly bled out alone." He paused, rubbing his forehead. "My heart can't take this shit." He rubbed his chest. "I almost didn't find you in time … I didn't … It was fucking chance I found you there." He paused. "I don't like chances, Peter. I'm not mad at you. If I hadn't taken the suit, I could have found you faster. I would have known you were flying a thousand feet in the air. Shit goes ding for that—"

"I think what Tony is saying is that this is no one's fault. Now, why don't you come down here."

Peter nodded, still trying to absorb everything that Mr. Stark had just said. He wasn't mad. He was proud.

He climbed down and sat down on the edge of the bed. He was feeling better but still pretty terrible. Hanging sideways hadn't done much to improve how he was feeling.

"What about Aunt May? What did you tell her?" Peter asked.

Mr. Stark walked over to the counter and grabbed a packet of gauze, tearing it open. He walked over to him and reached out, taking Peter's arm, wiping the blood and saline off his arm from where he tore out the IV.

Peter's stomach chose that moment to grumble. Any time his advanced healing kicked in, he became ravenous, more so than usual.

"I … I don't want to … I mean … never mind, Mr. Stark," Peter said sheepishly.

Mr. Stark glanced down at him as he stood, tossing the used gauze in the trash. "First, it's Tony, for what? Like the hundredth time this month? I mean it, stop with the Mr. Stark crap." He grabbed a band-aid and stuck it over the IV site. "Mr. Stark was my father. I'll never reach that level of adulting. Second, I would seriously hope after tonight we've reached some point of communication where you can say whatever comes to mind. Actually, scratch that, most things that come to mind, reasonable things. Was what you were going to say reasonable?"

Peter looked at him. "I guess. My metabolism is just kinda fast, well a lot fast, more so after injury."

"So, you're hungry?"

Peter shrugged.

"Okay, I can do something about that," he said, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen before putting it to his ear. "Happy. He's fine … I need food … High calorie … I don't know." He turned to Peter. "What do you want?"

"McDonald's?"

"Killing me," Mr. Stark—Tony said, rolling his eyes. "Get the kid McDonald's … I don't care … Get the whole damn menu." Putting his phone back in his pocket, he looked at Peter. "It'll be here soon. You good till then?"

"Yeah, I think. Just a bit dizzy."

"Okay, we're gonna have to work on your definitions later. Good isn't becoming hypoglycemic."

Bruce stepped into view carrying a new IV bag and setup, gloves already on. "This will help until we can get you fed. I can kinda understand how you feel, not the sticky to walls, though I'm curious how that came to be. I'm a bit different myself."

"A bit," Tony scoffed. "You turn green and grow to the size of a truck."

Peter's mouth nearly fell open. "Wait, are you the Hulk?"

"The one and only," Bruce said.

"It was radiation, right? Kinda like me?"

Bruce's brow furrowed. "What do you mean like you?"

"I … I was bitten by a radioactive spider. That's how it all happened."

The older man's face went blank for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something a few times, but nothing seemed to come out. Peter thought he broke him.

"I'd really like to get you in my lab sometime and have a look at your DNA."

"Peter, you don't have to do that. You're not some specimen," Tony said.

Bruce pushed his glasses up. "Right, of course, I—"

"No, it's fine. I thought I knew you from somewhere. I just didn't realize earlier you were _that_ Bruce Banner. I read a bunch of your stuff after the bite."

"Really?" Bruce looked astonished. "And you understood it?"

Peter nodded.

"Seriously? Are you fanboying over Bruce? Where's Happy with the damn food."

"This is gonna pinch a bit," Bruce said, placing the IV and taping it in place. "No more climbing walls." He smiled. "Seriously though, you need to take it easy. You're accelerated healing should take care of things quickly, but you lost a lot of blood. You went into what's called hypovolemic shock. You need fluids. You lucked out Tony could spare some blood."

Peter looked at Mr. Stark, who was leaning on the counter, arms crossed. "I guess … I mean … Thank you. You saved my life."

"You're welcome, and I'm making you a new suit, a better suit. God, you seriously went out in pajamas, like for real, just to prove you could be Spider-Man. Damn kid. You're the real thing."

"Thanks?"

Tony chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. "Foods here. Eat before you pass you. Then sleep. Don't worry about May. Don't worry about anything. I'll be right here. I got nowhere else I'd rather be."

For the first time, it really began to sink in—he wasn't alone.


	3. You Had One Job

"Seriously, Happy, unless a worm hole opened up over Manhattan, I told you. I'm busy—like no interruptions busy. Can't a guy just—"

"Tony, will you shut the hell up for a second," Happy snapped.

That got his attention. "Did you just—you didn't just tell me, _me_ , Tony Stark to shut the—"

"The jet went down. There was a hijacking." Happy's voice was strained, which Tony noted it damn well should be. He put Happy in charge of the project. He should have had every base covered. There shouldn't have been a fucking hijacking.

"How the fuck did my plane get hijacked!" Tony snapped. "I put you in charge! You had a goddamn invisible plane. What about the cargo? The tech? Fuck!"

He was up out of bed and scrambling for clothes that were strewn around the bedroom.

"Tony, can you just fucking listen?" Happy snapped.

"Oh, you get to have a fucking attitude. I trusted you to get this transfer through smoothly." He was grabbing his socks and pulling them on, hopping and losing balance. Dammit. This was supposed to be his one night off. He wasn't supposed to be out hunting hijackers. "Where the hell did it go down?"

"Edge of Coney Island—on the beach. That's not the part I'm—"

"And the hijackers? I assume they got away. Of course, they got away. That's my kind of luck," he rambled, pulling on his pants. He grabbed a shirt and pulled it over his head. "Have you notified the authorities? Never mind, you're notifying me. Any civilian casualties?"

"Tony! Shut the fuck up for a second. It looks like the kid stopped it. He brought it down. The guy responsible is here webbed to the wreckage with a note."

"What the fuck did you just say? You didn't just say the kid—aka Spider-Man—was on the plane when it went down?"

He heard Happy sigh. "There's blood, Tony, and I don't think it belongs to this bird guy. I think it's the kid's."

Tony blinked for a moment. It wasn't often something rendered his brain useless; this news, however, just didn't want to be accepted.

The kid. His kid. Peter. His responsibility. Had Been on the plane. He'd ridden out the crash—a motherfucking plane crash. Jesus. He'd had no protection. The worst possibilities began to chase through his mind.

"Happy, search the beach. Friday, suit now!" Tony snapped. The suit enclosed around him. "Transfer the call to the suit." He took off, pushing the suit as hard as he could. "Anything?" Tony asked. "Happy, do you see anything!"

"I'm looking, boss but not finding anything." Happy paused. "Wait, there's a few drops of blood and some tracks."

Tony's blood seemed to run cold, and his heart beat harder in his chest, his stomach sinking. "Follow it. We need to find him. Fuck. He's just a kid."

The minutes it took to get to there were the longest of Tony's life, and his mind seemed happy to supply him with gruesome images of Peter bleeding out somewhere to enjoy on the flight.

"Friday, track Peter's phone. I need a location now," Tony said.

"I'm not currently able to pull up any location information related to Peter Parker's phone."

Shit. How was he gonna find Peter? It would be just like him to take off hurt and die in some alley. He was going to have a long talk with the kid about safety when this was over.

"Happy, you still with me. You find him yet?"

"Nothing," Happy said. "I followed his tracks to the street, but I lost him."

Tony's face hardened with determination. "I'm thirty seconds out."

He saw Happy and flew to his location. Images of Peter hurt, bleeding, maybe even dying still dancing through his mind. If Peter died, the blood was on his hands. He should have never taken the suit from him. The kid needed someone watching out for him. He should have known Peter would keep fighting. The damn kid had heart.

Tony was going to find him, save him, and then kill him—in that order.

"Friday, switch to thermal," he said, looking out over the nearby buildings. Nothing immediately stuck out. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe the kid was already healing up and heading home.

Just as he was about to say connect him to May Parker, he saw something—a small curled figure on a nearby rooftop. His heart clenched in his chest, and he flew over. He didn't want to believe it was Peter, but he knew it was.

The first thing his eyes snapped to the blood. He could see it even in the darkness, soaking his shirt, covering his hands. He was still, too still. The moonlight was pale against his skin. Tony was unable to move.

"Friday, is he …" He was there, beside him, reaching out.

"He's alive, sir, but his vitals are unstable. He appears to be going into shock."

Happy's cut in through his panic. "Did you find him?"

Tony just stared for a moment—frozen. Panic overtaking him, its cold clutches gripping him tightly. His lungs burned from the breath he was holding as he looked at the boy—the child, dressed in nothing more than some sweats, bleeding out in front of him.

"Tony!" Happy snapped.

Happy's voice pulled him back from the edge. "I got him. He's alive—"

"Sir," Friday's voice said. "His vitals are declining."

He bent and grabbed Peter, scooping him tightly into his arms.

"Friday, is Banner still in the tower?"

There was a pause, and then Friday spoke again. "Yes, Doctor Banner is currently in the Lab."

"Patch me through."

"Tony?" Bruce's voice came through.

"Get to the medical bay. I'm bringing someone in."

"What? Tony? What's going on?" Bruce said.

"I've got …" He paused, not sure what to say. "I've got Spider-Man. He's bleeding out."

Tony glanced down and saw Peter's eyes fluttering and then going closed, his body going lax in his arms.

"Fuck, Friday, tell me he's still alive."

"His vitals are continuing to drop. Time is of the essence, sir."

"Faster then," Tony snapped.

"To increase speed, I would need to divert power from flight system functions. I do not advise this." Friday said. "You'll need to navigate manually."

Tony's mind was racing. "I don't care what you advise. Divert the power then. Fuck."

"Power diverted."

Tony looked down again at the boy's face. He was slipping away, and he knew it.

"Kid, kid, please. You don't get to leave me like this. You don't get to pull this shit and die. I damn well deserve a chance to kill you myself for this stunt."

Peter's head rolled to the side as they approached the tower.

"No! Peter!"


End file.
